


It Should Have Been Me...

by Paolox3



Category: South Park
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Blood and Gore, Gun Violence, M/M, School Shootings, Stan Marsh dies, Survivor Guilt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-01
Updated: 2018-10-01
Packaged: 2019-07-23 04:58:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,292
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16152086
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Paolox3/pseuds/Paolox3
Summary: After the school shooting, Kenny McCormick comes to a conclusion. After all, survivor guilt can be a horrible thing for an Immortal. Especially when the wrong boy dies, and no one seems to care.





	It Should Have Been Me...

**Author's Note:**

> This is just a one-off that I spun up tonight, after watching "Dead Kids" again. This one gets somewhat gory, and given the topic, it isn't pretty. Blood, death, murder, and suicide. Be warned!  
> Note: Of course, Stan didn't die in the series canon! We're all glad about that. But suppose the shooting caused a parallel Timeline to form, in which Stan Marsh did die?

It wasn't long after Stan Marsh died, before I gave up the life that I'd known, assuming a new identity. There was simply no point in continuing. I should say, there was no point in continuing in South Park, Colorado. No one knew the “New Kid in Town”, when I walked back into Greeley Elementary that day.

I'd been there before, of course. It was a good place to start all over, I suppose. Everyone was poor, like me, and I was used to that. It was an even smaller, even more boring town, than South Park. It was a good launching point, too. Not that I planned to stay long.

Nothing ever happened in Greeley, so to say. I had a friend once who once said he liked things nice and boring. Greeley was certainly that!

And no one knew me, with the cosmetic changes.

No one cared about another poor kid in school.

No one cared about some drifter, who likely wouldn't stay long.

It wasn't much different there, to be honest. Hardly anyone back home had even noticed me before in my former life, actually. It was as if all the times that I'd died, and been reborn, had been catching up with me over the years. I was beginning to feel like a ghost, even though I still had a body. Even when I was there, it was like I _wasn't_ there.

No one seemed to notice me anymore. Hardly anyone spoke to me, or listened when I had something to say. My friends started going on adventures without me. They'd almost totally stopped calling or even texting me. Even my parents, for what they're worth, had stopped yelling at me.

You see, I knew what ten year old Stan Marsh must have felt that day.

I knew damn well what he'd gone through, when the bullet had torn through him.

I've been shot before – several times, in fact. I've even shot myself before, committing suicide, in hopes that I wouldn't resurrect.

But I always did. I still do.

I've given up on ever being free of this awful life of mine. I figured that things couldn't get any worse for me. After all, like I said, it was beginning to feel like I didn't exist anymore.

And then came that day that some kid shot up South Park Elementary School.

That was the problem: Stan Marsh, one of my closest friends, was shot at school.

He was shot, and almost no one seemed to care.

I knew how that felt, too.

Stan was dead before the shooter had even gotten “warmed up,” so to say.

As I said, that was the problem.

Stanley _wasn't_ going to resurrect.

My name _used_ to be Kenny McCormick, and I was (I still am) immortal.

As I've said, I've died before. Sometimes I see Heaven, sometimes I see Hell. Sometimes, there is only a void. Other times, there is some inexplicable place so full of colors that I can only call it “not void,” for lack of understanding it. I've seen Jesus. I've seen Satan.

But it never lasts. I always wake up, some time later, back in my bed, as if nothing had happened.

And no one ever fucking remembers.

That's the most painful part.

I've given my life for the sake of others, too many times, and they never remember.

It wears on you, trust me. When you've been shot, ripped apart, electrocuted, crushed, stabbed through the skull, died of some incurable disease, and any of the other myriad says I've been killed, it starts to become blasé. It's like, “I wonder how I'll die next time?”

God, it hurts. It always hurts.

What the hell does it matter anymore?

I once even shot myself in the head, after leaping to my death off a cliff in some other Demonic dimension to free my friends. I wanted to try and prove it to them, my first suicide attempt.

Stan was there.

He lived through that nightmare because I sacrificed myself for him and the others.

And he didn't remember.

Problem is, _I_ remember.

And I'll remember Stan Marsh until the day that this horrible curse of mine finally breaks.

It _will_ break, you know. This I have come to know. I could break this curse, you see, but that would mean killing my own mother. You see, she told me not long ago. In fact, it was just after Stan's funeral. Maybe that's what triggered her to tell me. I don't know. She didn't say.

Every time I die, she runs through the cycle of conception and pregnancy, then delivery, in a matter of minutes. She gives birth to me all over again, and that baby is a new _me_ by morning. Of course, it's taken years of me wondering, years of our mutual suffering, for her to finally break down in a drunken stupor and confess this secret to me.

I think she was afraid that I might kill her.

It would free me, yes, but there's no way I could ever do that. I couldn't do that to Karen, my little sister. If she even knew about me, knew that I was her “guardian angel” (Mysterion), and how I've died and been reborn so many times, she'd never be able to cope with it.

And while I don't really care about my worthless parents, I simply cannot do that to Karen. They're worthless, yes, but they're all she has.

Other than me.

And I've hurt her enough already, by leaving.

I still keep tabs on her, of course, now that I'm gone. Her guardian angel still visits her, making sure that she has food, clothing, and warmth in the winter. After all, there's one less child to provide for in their lives now. As Mysterion, the Angel, I can only assure her that her brother is fine.

“Trust me,” I say, and she does.

God, that hurts.

But as I said, the McCormick family isn't the only family in South Park with one less child to provide for now.

It wasn't the end of the world, so many of them said.

Hell, I heard from Kyle Broflovski that Stan's own mom said the same thing.

It was just another school shooting, after all, wasn't it?

I guess it was, up until Stan was the one that got shot.

I suppose it's like that – it's just another headline, another bit of talk on the news – until it's someone you know.

For me, it _**was**_ the end of the world.

The end of MY world.

We were on our way to fourth period math class when it happened. When the first shot rang out, I wasn't concerned at all. I should say, I wasn't concerned for myself.

I was worried about Karen.

But the shooter was in our part of the school. Mr. Mackey was running around like a chicken with no head, screaming, and the SWAT teams were after the shooter. Karen's classroom was on the other end of the place, and she knew what to do. I'd made damn sure of that! Somehow I knew that Karen would be OK.

I never expected Stan to get shot.

Cartman and Token were talking to PC Principal at the time. Stan and Kyle and I had just come out of the restroom. We had that damn math test to take over. Fractions.

Fucking fractions.

And of all the crazy shit to do, they'd made Butters the Hall Monitor, and given him a damn AK-47 assault rifle! We're lucky that Butters didn't shoot us, I guess. That's their solution? Arm the students?! The hell is that all about?

It happened so fast.

Butters had gone down the hall, meeting up with Cartman and Token. The shooting had started just then. I remember us all ducking, Cartman grabbing Billy's lunchbox, and making a run for it. The hell was that lunchbox made of? Titanium?!

I shoved Kyle down. Like I said, it didn't matter if I got shot. After all, I'd wake up in bed again, with my new perfect body, and the day would start over like nothing happened. I might have hit Kyle a bit too hard, I guess, and I'd just turned to Stan. I was going to knock him behind the big metal trash can, you see, when I heard him scream my name.

“KENNY!”

And then he was in front of me.

The fucking idiot jumped in front of me.

That was what I was _supposed_ to do.

But I never got the chance, as he knocked me off balance. I fell back, hit my head on a row of lockers, and went down. It didn't knock me out, but it dazed me. It slowed me down just enough to not be able to react fast enough. I grabbed his ankle, but there was another burst of gunfire.

I don't know if it was the shooter's, or the SWAT team's.

And Stan was just standing there.

Standing in front of me.

He was still standing when the shooter went down.

Everyone was screaming.

Kyle was screaming, too.

I remember Kyle's screams.

I'll remember them to the day that my curse finally breaks.

I'd just called Stan an idiot when I noticed it – the blood all over my front.

And for once, it wasn't my own.

And it was all over Kyle, too.

Looking back, Stan was already dead before even turned to face me and Kyle. He was dead before he even pulled his hand away from his chest.

He was dead before he even cracked that goofy smile.

He'd just been mortally wounded, and the son of a bitch was smiling?!

“STAN!” Kyle screamed in my ear, and I guess that was when Stan realized it.

He slowly pulled his hand from his chest, his face already that pallor that I've come to know so well.

“K-Kyle?” He gasped.

Then he choked. It wasn't really a cough, and it wasn't like in the movies. He just sort of looked from Kyle to his own bloody hand, and back again. Blood seeped from the corners of his mouth, and he just managed a strangled, “Oh, shit!” before he crumpled to the floor.

Kyle was crying. SWAT guys were barking orders. Students and teachers were running everywhere. It was pandemonium. The air reeked of sulfur and worse.

Stan lay on the floor, bleeding out.

I swear to God, he chuckled.

He was dead before I started CPR.

He was dead before Kyle took his bloody hand.

He was dead before he could even choke out those last words: “Kyle, I love you!”

He was dead before those first tears (I don't know whose) fell to mingle with his spilled blood.

I still had to try, though. I knew what being shot through the heart looked like. I knew what it felt like. I knew, when the sparkle went out of those blue eyes of his, that it was over. But I still had to try.

I tasted his blood when I stopped the first set of compressions to give him mouth-to-mouth.

When I blew air into him, it just came burbling out of the hole in his chest.

Shit, a chunk of his lung, and too much of his heart, was splattered all over the front of my orange coat and all over Kyle's face.

Stan Marsh was now just another headline, another news story: SCHOOL SHOOTING IN SOUTH PARK, COLORADO! DETAILS AT 6!

They said that no one cared. No one noticed. “Oh, another school shooting, did you hear?”

But I was there.

I cared.

Kyle cared.

I guess you _don't_ care, so long as it's someone you _don't_ know.

What does it matter, if twenty-some kids in some other state, hundreds or a thousand miles away, get shot at school? It's not gonna happen here. It's not gonna be my kid.

I guess Sharon Marsh thought that, too?

And I guess another thing I'll remember was the look on PC Principal's face when he came down the hall and saw us.

I heard he quit, not long after the shooting.

The last I ever saw of him, he was carrying Kyle away, and dialing someone on Kyle's phone. I guess he was the one that called Stan's folks?

I don't remember who carried me out of the school. I suppose it was the paramedic who pried me off of Stan's body. All I was worried about just then was them tearing my clothes off. It wasn't like I had that many clothes, to be ruining!

They found the bullet stuck in my sternum, hardly entered at all. Just a flesh wound. In fact, it fell out when they tore my orange coat off. I protested that I was fine, it was just a scratch. They didn't listen. I tried to get away. I punched the guy.

You see, I had something to do.

I had to get home.

I had to get home, to commit suicide.

You see, if I died fast enough, I knew, I could 'reboot' that day. I would wake up in my bed, get a do-over, and I'd stop the shooter.

I knew who it was.

I'd simply take my handgun to school, and I'd kill _him_ before he could kill anyone.

Before he could kill Stan.

I didn't make it to the parking lot before some asshole SWAT guy tripped me up, and the damn medic sedated me.

I woke up in the hospital three days later.

Three mother-fucking days later.

Stan Marsh was dead.

And he was going to _stay_ dead.

It was far too late for me to get my do-over.

I awoke in a room with three others: Kyle, Butters, and Token.

Cartman had wrenched Token's shoulder, dragging him into the classroom, but he had, in fact, saved Token's life. What a bitch! To owe your life to Cartman? Butters had a flesh wound, probably from his own gun, they said, what with the chemical burns. He'd almost shot his own foot off. Ironic, huh?

Kyle, though?

Kyle had just shut down.

They said he hadn't so much as twitched in those three days. He just lay there in that bed, everything white, looking so small. A nose-tube, an IV, and an oxygen cannula. I guess they had a Foley catheter up his dick, too, I heard a nurse say? Makes sense. I'd been sedated for three days. They said I was hysterical.

Trust me, if they say “catheter,” kill yourself!

Which is just what I did.

When Token and Butters (neither of whom wanted to talk) went back to sleep, I blew some air into my IV line. I wanted to see what would happen.

I'd never died like that before.

One big air bubble and a heart attack later, and I woke up at home in my bed.

“Kenny, Baby, it's time to get up. You'll be late for your little friend's funeral,” I heard my mom saying.

The last words I ever said to her were, “It should have been me, Mom.”

She didn't answer.

She just turned and left the room, having laid my light blue suit out for me.

I didn't cry then. I didn't cry at the funeral. I didn't cry when Father Maxie spoke. I didn't cry, when they had to take a screaming, hysterical Butters away. I didn't even cry when they threw the first shovel full of dirt in on Stan's casket.

My tears had long since turned to dust.

I couldn't tell you who all was there.

But I can tell you who _wasn't_ there.

Kyle wasn't there.

They said it wasn't the end of the world.

But it was.

It was, for two boys.

It was the end of the fucking world for Kyle and me.

I left South Park that night.

Butters was in the Mental House.  
Kyle was still in hospital, catatonic.  
I don't know, or even fucking care, where Cartman was.

The arrangements were simple.

Tweek, who hadn't been there, would watch over Karen. He'd have Craig's help, too. Craig had been at Tweek's, taking care of him. Naturally, Tweek had been too hysterical to be at school. Total fucking meltdown, Craig had said. All that progress they'd made, too.

Craig Tucker was going to have his hands full in the coming days.

“You're not coming back?” Craig had asked.

The last word I ever said to him was “No.”

The last words I ever said to Kyle, who probably didn't hear me, were, “It should have been me.”

The last words I ever said to Butters, who didn't seem to understand them, or even know who I was, were, “I love you, Leo. I wish I'd said it sooner.”

His answer, though, was just some giggling. Then he just sat there in his straitjacket, rocking and grinning. I kissed him goodbye. He didn't seem to notice.

I walked all night that night, arriving in Greeley early the next morning. Some stolen clothes, some stolen cash, and some hair dye after a change of style. No one would remember the boy in the orange coat who'd lived with the Weatherheads for a while, some time back.

After all, they'd never seen my face under that parka and scarf.

“That new kid is weird. He doesn't talk much. They say something bad happened, he got shot at school or something, and it made his hair turn white!”

“You ever see his eyes? They look dead.”

“He doesn't have any friends.”

“He doesn't _want_ any friends,” they all say.

And they're right.

I suppose I have two, though.

Two, back home.

Home.

Home is something I don't have now. Home is in South Park, where my sister is. Home is where I never go. Home is a place at the end of a postal route, that ends at Tweak Brothers Coffee Shoppe.

It's where Karen spends a great deal of time with Tricia Tucker.

Without me.

Craig says she's doing fine, when he posts on Facebook. He thinks I'm Mike Gainor, an alias that Stan once used when he tried to sneak into Cartman's theme park.

I think he knows, though.

After all, Craig figured out fractions eventually.

There's been no school shootings here, for what it's worth. To me, it's worth a LOT. There's rumors of a costumed vigilante, though, in fact, the same one what took out the Weatherheads some time ago. They say he shows up on the elementary school roof at night, and that he'll kill you, if he thinks you're a threat to the kids. They even say that he shows up over in South Park now and then, at some local coffee house. They say he couldn't save those kids in South Park.

They're right, you know.

They say he's not human, too. They say he can't be killed.

They're right about that, too.

See, you can't kill what's already dead.

At least, I guess, what's dead _inside_.

I've not been killed in a long time, though; I'm more careful now. I suppose that if I was, again, I'd wake up back in South Park, back in my old bed.

And I sure as hell don't want that again.

It's a long walk, after all, but one that I won't be making many more times. Greeley is safe. Too safe. There are other towns out there that aren't, and I think... maybe... that fate or something, someone, makes it so that an Abomination like me _has_ to move on, before bad things begin to happen to those around him.

I don't know where I'll go next.

I'm still alive.

But my friend, Stan, isn't.

It should have been me...

 


End file.
